


you've swallowed a bad thing and now it's got its hands inside you

by postcardmystery



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Blood, F/F, F/M, French Revolution, M/M, Murder, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 10:01:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postcardmystery/pseuds/postcardmystery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her skin is white without powder, her lips without it always red. Her hair is unfashionably dark, until fashion is the last thing on everyone's minds, something else red on their lips, in turn.</p><p>French Revolution AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you've swallowed a bad thing and now it's got its hands inside you

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for blood, violence, murder, and the Terror.

She was to be a nun; then she wasn't. This is how this story begins, carries, ends.  
  


  
  
Her skin is white without powder, her lips without it always red. Her hair is unfashionably dark, until fashion is the last thing on everyone's minds, something else red on their lips, in turn.  
  


  
  
There is on single fleck of blood on his hand, and he says, in a lilt she's never heard before, "Does the little bird want to fly?"  
  


  
  
He takes her hand in his, ( _the blood smears_ ), gives it to another, to another with blonde hair and deep, empty eyes.  
  
"Oh, yes," she says, tossing a single golden ringlet over her shoulder, "she will most  _certainly_  do."  
  


  
  
Paris is burning and the light reflects on their teeth. They aren't sharp, but they still glisten.  
  


  
  
The blade of the device is sharp and silver, so fast you don't have time to hear it before it slices flesh, and he bares his teeth once more, says, "They will get bored of it in time. They always do."  
  


  
  
Paris still burns, for Robespierre has found his aria and sings it with grim determination. Paris is burning, and there is little fun to be had in its ruins.  
  


  
  
"Say goodbye," he says, "we'll come back when there's another king to kill."  
  
She leaves a single flower in Cimetière des Saints-Innocents, expects to feel sad, doesn't.  
  


  
  
There is  _always_  another king to kill.  
  


  
  
They're in London, and it's raining. She suspects it always is.  
  
They're at a party, ( _you have those when your aristocracy doesn't leave stains on your capital's streets_ ), and she sees him.   
  
"Hello, lovely," she says in a new, unfamiliar tongue, and breaks every social convention she knows, puts a hand on one of those sharp cheekbones, looks up through her eyelashes, because this one, this one's  _hers_.  
  


  
  
His name is William, and he's always wanted to kill a king, even if he didn't know it. He was caged, and now he will be free.   
  
She brings him home to Angelus, and he grins, says, "What ye waitin' for, boy?"  
  


  
  
There is always another king to kill, and all they must do is wait.  
  


  
  
She was to be a nun, but she knows the secret now: there is no God, just time, just the beat of a pulse, just the pistol in her hand.  
  
"I have always wanted to see China," says Darla, musing, and Drusilla kisses her hard on the lips, says, sing-song, "Your wish, my lady, is all of our commands."


End file.
